Descry
by Kiasarene
Summary: A habit-any sort of repeated inclination, isn't something you can ever afford to dream of within the measures of the kind of life we lead. YonKaka. Bit of swearing.Bleeds pretentiousness


**Title: **Descry

**Author:** Kiaserene

**Series:** Naruto

**Pairing:** Vague(why is it vague? I love this pairing! whywhywhywhy...)YonKaka

**Summary:**_A habit-any sort of repeated inclination, isn't something you can ever afford to dream of within the measures of the kind of life we lead. _

**Disclaimer:** The only harm intended applies to having you angry with me for not having these two bishi's tear at each other's clothes_, _and further so, hoping you get caught day dreaming about it. ( This fic sucks too bad too own anything)

_A/N:_ I swear on all things good and slashy this is utter pretentious bullshit. I know that. It was supposed to be really long. I rushed it, and haven't even read the damn thing as a whole. You are allowed to hate it. Just remember to at least drop a line telling me so :D_  
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_It's the glance that doesn't happen._

**I.**_  
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In the little time Kakashi Hatake has lived( they tell him fifteen years isn't very long at all, but he knows of that trickle of doubt they feel, when they've seen what he's seen, and what he can do, and how long it's been, in complex contrast to the spill of open life he's already taken- and he knows it's already been too long,) he's lost so many things already, and the best and only way to see it(that he can), the way that he does, is in numbers and figures, and proofs and facts, and everything he can't have, verses what he doesn't need to think about(because it's hard to stop doing that, though if he could, he would).

It counts( but it's always counting down) as to why denial is a familiar word to him, ( _not him, not him, not him,) _and the everything and nothing around him(it's so complicated- he's still just a child, and it's so hard to not make sense of what you've got when you're a fucking genius, it's _ hard_). He had nice things once- a longtime ago; a home, warm hands and brilliant, welcome, grins.

The nicest thing he can have as of now though, is that porcelain mask, and even that later cracks, in a battle with an enemy nin.

Here he has nothing-

-And that's okay. There is nothing to deny himself when he's got nothing in the first place( it's all gone in the negatives, and it's not in the rules-that will hurt, hurt so bad- to let the numbers climb). And it saves him time.

( He is so efficient, you see.)

In the little time Kakasi Hatake has lived( they tell him fifteen years isn't very long at all...) he knows what it is he won't want.

Even faced with last blue shard that is his sanity(so warm when he lets him touch him, so bright when he can see), he is so efficient.

Until.

Until.

**II.**

It's a hazard, practically a suicide mission, but he makes it back because he's so efficient, though when he does he's lost allot again, some people he didn't know he had, and a whole lot of skin beneath some new bandages that start to feel tender just now.

It's the tenderness. It burns and yearns like a shaken lump of meat, and that tenderness makes him stand in front of Minato's door at inappropriate hours of the night.

He's still something like firewood when he's groggily invited inside for tea, but minutes later:

Kakashi wishes the glass would slide. He wishes it would fall(fall hard, fall fast, fast, fast, fast) and crack, shatter, into a thousand pieces, and scatter across the floor, ricochet off the tiles and steal into his flesh, make their way though his system, and leave him cold and soaked in his own blood.( the way he won't)

(He's not a far cry from desperate. No one's yet to say a word. )

If ever he were to express this sentiment to the person he so conspires against, he'd have the urge stripped from his being, torn to pieces in an attempt to keep him sane(_give you what you want, keep you safe, keep you sane. __**Give you what I want, keep you safe, keeps me sane.)**_ and have been left empty, for real this time, because what he is now is a mess, what he is when he sees them together(**her red hair, lovely and wonderful, and malachite eyes near all he'll ever need,)** is that one vice he doesn't get to have, a defect to what's been perfectly ruined(perfectly) while the rest( all the other ones, all those little white-glass lies, tinted rusty, black-reds, and broken yellows and purples) sustain their right to remain vicious and terrible, hideous and covered in a flawless veil of reason-" He doesn't need a sense of self; he doesn't need a ruin,-"

-But the glass in sensei's hand won't break; no one's even dropped it, and he's left hungering, eyes trained intensely into the vice(the one he _can't have_,) as breath catches in his thin, scarred throat, and had he been anyone else at all( a lover, a friend, a hero, a _child,) _and not the ghostly, miniature tool(killer, killer,) that he is, a sound like sorrow might have torn from his chest.

" Kakashi-kun?"

But he is Kakashi Hatake,( do you hear it? even _sensei _knows, )and little empty puppets do not feel pain, neither do they wish, want, nor are they physically capable of letting shrieks rip through their throats.

He is Kakashi Hatake: he lives,(bleeds) breathes, only in the eyes of his village.

When they turn away (never,never) he is also nothing.

"Kakashi-kun? Are you alright? You look terrible." The glass won't break, and no one is going to scream. In fact the room is quiet, stagnant and orderly, familiar even, if he'd ever spent enough time in his own house to compare it to. It's not right that the cobalt eyes searching his paled face are so completely more familiar than what might be his own makeshift home( bare walls, cold floors he isn't quite sure are right), and his very own reflection, even now with the scar and ruby red manifestation of his friend (it's not, it's not).

It's not real…

" Kakashi!"

And just like the most disturbing paradox he's there, and sensei is watching him, pulling him out of his thoughts like vicious sea water, watching him.

There's no glass on the floor.

" Sensei," Kakashi's mismatched eyes are vibrant, and for all their possible depth they are so empty, and when his voice never breaks, it frightens the most valiant of grown men, the most mercy-less of killers. It is what he's been made to be, and it is not a question, but a statement.

" Are you all right?" Kakashi regards him quickly, well aware he must have been terribly quiet for the longest time. Minato feels the need to rephrase his question when all he receives is a faint mock glare( it's all he can afford).

" Kakashi, when was your last day off?"

He takes a moment to swallow that non-existing lump in his throat and finger the porcelain cup that's been laid out before him. He doesn't have the right to tell him the truth, see him worry and flustered, he knows, but in reality- it shouldn't matter. Words are but words, and the only thing that matters are the hard facts and where they will get you.

" Just the day before yesterday, actually," He meets sensei's eyes in explanation.

His last day off was three months ago.

" I see…" Minato is troubled, and Kakashi wishes(except he doesn't, because puppets do not feel pain, neither do they wish,) he could make it worse only so he could make it better. He could smile, cold and catty, and whisper the truth, now, when he had the chance, so that everything may be ruined, the way he does anyway, when he is not constantly reminded he is so young(because sensei is so much taller, faster, bigger) and he is feared, and not left to fear his own non-existent trembling resolve( it won't break, won't break, so...)

He needs to feel it break.

" **Sensei." **Kakashi's voice pierces( metal on flesh, your heart on fire) past whatever statement might have been ready to pass Minato's lips before it's ever been fully formulized, leaving him alert and waiting(for Kakashi, because he always does, alwaysalwaysalways-**stop it**.)

_No one has yet to have said a word,_

It's a silent, fatal kind of frustration, and where he to speak it, feel the words on his tongue and let the hum fill his throat(replace that wicked emptiness, the one that's always there,) it would spread like glass from the inside into his blood.

All the things he'll never have, and everything he won't want.

He lives, breathes( bleeds) only for the sake of his village, and when it turns his back, he is also nothing.

" You're not feeling well?" He doesn't remember why he'd subjugate himself to such misery, and he doesn't remember what's driven him to the wall( he's just there, sweat plastered on his pasty white skin, corners and pieces jutting into his flesh,) and it's happening.

He can't stand the sight of himself in the mirror blue when he says it. It's such an ugly picture. It doesn't fit the way he cut himself up all solid and invincible, and later when he cries it's not even a person.

Minato will watch that glass later, when his world falls apart and a baby cries solemn, condemned. The glass will break, his last glance assures, like the first fished a hook.

**(Snag, snag, snag, he caught that look.)**

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Umm. I apologize for mind fuckery and MEGA overuse of parenthesis and hyphens. I think it had a purpose.


End file.
